It would have been a nice day for a run, if I hadn’t had a dog attached to me.

We just emerged from a cold snap of snow and temps in the teens. So Kona hasn’t walked much, and the melting snow is muddy and slick. Sounds like the perfect recipe for a pissed-off me.

We started the run with Kona nipping and biting at the leash, so I asserted my dominance as Cesar Millan has taught me. Worked like a charm for about five seconds, which is when she pooped in a grassy area and I pretended not to see, so I didn’t have to clean it up. Don’t judge; it isn’t someone’s yard and the next snow storm will cover it up. Isn’t it like fertilizer, anyway?

As we approached the beautiful lake, Kona remembered that she’s recently taken up eating crap — both hers and others’ — so she started diving for the geese droppings. That only lasted until she saw the actual geese and took off full speed and strength toward them, dragging me along. I ultimately won the battle for control, but my baby pink velour pants have muddy paw prints as evidence that it wasn’t easy. Those pants were great for back-to-back Intervention lounging or working out. That bitch ruined them.

We began our return back home, walking through the underpass, where the snow and ice have yet to melt. I saw a man with a hook for a hand ahead of us and braced myself for Kona’s sprint toward him. If Kona tries to rush into oncoming traffic, she will surely try to jab her body into the hook of a passerby. So I told her to sit, blocked her view of the man with my body, and pretended to be working on our training as he passed. It worked!

Until she smelled an alluring scent that demanded her face to plunge into each crevice of a wooden pole. We stopped running back at the velour episode, but my music was still on and my headphones were still plugging my ears. My inhibitions were down and my irritation was up. That’s why I yelled too loudly “Kona” and “stop” and other equally-lettered words, at which point I was stopped by several little kids who wanted to pet Kona. Then a car with a family and their own little chocolate lab inside pulled over to talk about my husband’s dog, which is how I started thinking of her. I had to mask my frustration and put on my high-pitched dog/kid voice: “Oh, of course you can pet her! Did you make a new friend, Kona? She’s almost six months; how old is your puppy? Oh, she is so adorable! They grow up so fast!”

We finally made it home, and now she’s tuckered out at my feet like a sweet little puppy. And I’m typing this without pants.